Love is most nearly itself, When here and now cease to matter. -T.S. Eliot

I don’t normally share this stuff…

16 juin, 12

I think I’m losing you.

Not the tangible you, no.

I guess I fear I’m losing bits of me, that clung to you,
as your memory slowly washes away.

I can barely remember what it was like to be in love with you. I close my eyes, the place where you lived.–behind my eyelids–in flashes of light and

abstracted, muted,
fleeting motion.

Those flowers whose smell would instantaneously render me immobile,

taking me back to you, your blushing laughter, the tactility of
your lips-sometimes I can still feel them.
the breadth of your warm thigh intermingled between mine,
the light that quivered through the leaves outside your window, diffused through the sheets,
when I could not possibly bother to care who knew
we were making love as the morning breeze kissed my bare skin
as softly as you.

The look of peace that now drowned your eyes,
seeping through your every pore–that was for me.

My heart was flooded…sinking, I would inevitably lose you soon. We would both walk away from that place–travel down roads we had already mapped. How could I hold on? Just a few moments longer…

–sometimes I can’t remember the smell of these flowers.
do you remember the smell of my perfume? you used to love it so much.

does it take you back to us?

Your smile that used to be mine. Have I lost it?

Do you remember me?
…do I remember me?

I’m losing me.
but I don’t remember who that is.

And now, I can’t decide if I ever did.

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